


a vested interest in self-preservation

by weatheredlaw



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gang Violence, POV Alternating, Racism, Scandal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:23:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5705851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra Pentagast arrives in Kirkwall to speak with Varric Tethras regarding the local Chantry's relationship with the Carta. She has no idea what to expect and, frankly, that's probably all for the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a vested interest in self-preservation

**Author's Note:**

> um. i don't know what this is. so.

_The following is a brief, but pornographic, synopsis of the greatest weekend in Varric Tethras’s sad, lonely, miserable life._

 

* * *

 

The second she walked into his office, Varric knew everything was going to change.

No, wait. That’s a lie. It sounds more dramatic that way, though, right?

Correction to the above sentiment: the second she walked into his office, Varric knew right away that she was incredibly fucking lost.

“Reception is _upstairs_ ,” he shouted over the pile of folders and files on his desk. She did not move from her spot in his doorway, and when he finally spared her anything longer than a two-second glance, he came to the conclusion that, not only was she lost, but she was also incredibly fucking hot.

“You are Varric Tethras?” she asked, her tone indicating that, perhaps, she hoped he wasn’t.

He did love to prove people wrong.

“That’s me,” he said, and he stood with a grin. “You really did mean to come down here then.”

She straightened and said, “Certainly. I do not make mistakes such as this. This…is your office?” She eyed the boxes strewn about and looked at him. “How long have you been here?” she asked, delicately.

“Seven months.” He was rather proud.

“Ah.”

“Uh, here.” He lifted some folders from a chair and gestured for her to sit. “Must be something important you need to talk about, if you were told to come find me. Got a crime to report? Maybe a break-in around Hightown? Pair of pearly earrings stolen from a lady’s ears?”

“I…no. Of course not. Is that what you right about? I was under the impression you…were an _investigative_ reporter.”

“Technically, I am. Technically, I am also _not._ I got fired from my former position. Now I do police beat.”

“So it is not so different.”

“It’s different in that before, I was allowed to leave my office and see other people. Now, I stay here. I get less sunshine, though, so that’s nice.”

“This is a basement.”

“It is,” Varric agreed. “It really is.” He offered her a drink, which she declined. “So, you know me. Who are you?”

She pulled a bottle of water from her purse, drank from it, and said, “I am Cassandra Pentaghast. I am a Seeker for the Chantry.”

Varric whistled. “It’s an honor,” he said. “Am I in trouble? Did I write something bad about the Divine? I don’t remember doing that, I’m a fan of Justinia.”

Cassandra smiled. “It is nothing like that. You did some reporting last year on Carta violence in the Alienage? And, also, against less fortunate surface dwarves.”

Varric snorted. “You’re giving me a lot more credit than I deserve. I _attempted_ to report on those things, but was unsuccessful.” He glanced around the office, fixated on a stain in one of the corners. It seemed to grow and change daily – today, it resembled a nug, but tomorrow it might look like a horse, or even the Viscount’s face. Varric had no way of knowing. He sighed and looked at her. “As you can see, that didn’t work out.”

Cassandra seemed to sputter. “That was why you were removed from your previous position? Because you tried to reveal the truth?”

“…Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“But that is _absurd!_ ”

Varric snorted. “Tell that to the Carta. They own this town. Why do you care anyway?” he asked. “I mean, I’m not complaining. You’re the first person that’s known about this who didn’t tell me to drop it before they put my severed head in a bag. I just…what’s your angle?”

She seemed put off by the notion, but not unaffected. Carefully, she took out a folder from her bag, and placed it on his desk. Varric looked at it.

“What is this?”

“Open it,” she said quietly.

“Um.”

“Please,” she added, and gave him a smile.

Varric reached forward, raising the edge of the folder ever so slightly, and closing it immediately. “I don’t want to see this.”

“I think you should.”

“I really _don’t_ want to see this.”

She narrowed her eyes. “ _Open the file._ ”

Varric opened the file.

Inside, there was an assortment of photos, ranging from vomit inducing to moderately traumatizing. He thought, if only to himself, that it was probably good that he’d had regularly running insomnia for the last eight years, and went through each one by one.

“What happened to them?”

“They are victims of the Carta. The same Carta that has been hiding behind the Chantry, pouring money into their coffers while they abuse citizens who cannot and will not go to the police.”

Varric shook his head. “You mean this goes as far up as the _Chantry?_ ”

“Did you not surmise that before?”

“Uh, no. The Carta and the Chantry don’t go near one another. Why would the Chantry—”

Cassandra leaned forward. “What do you think the people of Kirkwall fear most? The wrath of the Maker? Or death?”

 

 

As she left the offices of the Kirkwall Tribune, Cassandra was struck with the notion that perhaps nothing would pan out at all. Varric, while willing to work with her, was apprehensive, as she’d expected. It was one thing, he’d pointed out, to imply the Carta was doing what the Carta always did.

“It’s another fucking thing to say they’re doing it with Chantry support. That’s…unsettling.”

“Surely,” she’d told him, “you don’t think that _this_ scale of violence and atrocity would be able to play out without it?”

He’d shrugged, and Cassandra had not been made to feel any better.

She was staying at the Chantry, which was either convenient, or incredibly unlucky. Being a Seeker, it meant she always had a home, in every town, city, or village, so long as a Chantry was present

The Revered Mother was a kind woman, but Cassandra didn’t think asking her if she knew anything of the Carta’s behaviors was a good idea. Varric told her to be careful – the Chantry in Kirkwall was tightknit, almost as terrifying as the Carta themselves. She kept in constant contact with him throughout the next day, and they met for lunch at the café across from the Chantry to compare notes.

“Who’s your source?” he asked, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket and placing them on the bridge of his large, crooked nose. Cassandra could not stop looking at it – it was something out of a book.

“The Divine’s Left Hand,” she said, as coolly as possible.

Varric choked. “Nightingale? She’s on this?”

“She said you would remember her. You had some dealings with her back when Hawke worked with you?”

“Hawke knew all the good people. Might be why I got demoted, honestly. All my reporting was sloppy, after she left.” The idea seemed to sober him, and he lifted his turkey sandwich and took a great bite of it. After he’d swallowed, he said, “What all does she know?”

“Someone inside the Chantry, one of her own, escaped with a set of books detailing transactions that they would have preferred not be made public.”

Varric nodded. “Right. You’ve donations from unsavory characters that keep you afloat, all that good stuff, but if people knew they might not be so willing to fill the coffers on their own every time they went in. I get it. My brother kept books like that.”

“For…”

“Sales,” he said simply, and went back to looking over his notes. “So Nightingale’s got records of Carta people putting money into Chantry hands.”

“Not quite.” Cassandra pointed to a line on a photocopy of one of the pages. “You see, here? These other names are familiar to you, yes?”

“Sure, I know those guys. I play Diamondback with a few of them. Humans are terrible at Diamondback.”

“This name.” She pointed to another. “Who is that?”

“Those are numbers.”

“They are account numbers,” she corrected. “They came from an account, which is referenced in a _separate_ book, the one that our spy could not obtain. There are levels here. Secrets within secrets,” she said. “The Chantry must hold the Carta accountable for the payments. If they opened their mouths tomorrow and began condoning known Carta members one by one, the Carta would retaliate.”

“Blood would flow down the Chantry steps.”

“Not likely. It wouldn’t better their case to take out beloved members of the community. Certainly, they are supplying the Chantry with a steady source of income, but there is another layer to this.”

“Shit.”

Cassandra took out another photo. “These are—”

“ _Shit!_ Is that Chancellor—” Cassandra shushed him. “ _Seeker._ This is bonafide, quasi-dimensional _blackmail!_ ”

“Precisely. The Chantry is accepting money from the Carta and refusing to condemn their actions publicly.”

“And the Carta is protecting their public reputation by holding information _against_ the Chantry,” Varric finished. “Which pocket is doing this?”

Cassandra frowned. “What do you mean?”

“There are pockets of Carta thugs, you know this. Right?” She shook her head. “Some are worse than others. They have territory, and they’re all over Thedas. Some work the Deep Roads, the Cadash family practically _owns_ Ostwick. House Cadash would never kill poor kids from Lowtown. They deal in lyrium exclusively and they send their messages quickly and violently. Blackmail is for people who have something bigger to hide.” He frowned. “This could go all the way downstairs.”

“Downstairs?”

“Orzammar,” he said helpfully. “That’s where the Carta is based. Hardly any of them live up here, but some gangs are…bolder, than others. That’s fucking huge, if it’s true. Little too huge for me to wrap my head around.”

“Then we think small, for now.”

Varric nodded, glancing at his watch. “Shit, I gotta go.” He pulled some money from his wallet and dropped it on the table. “Tell the girl to keep the change. I’ll call you tonight, yeah?”

 

* * *

 

Varric did not call her, but he sent her a message saying he was tied up in an editor’s meeting and would phone her as soon as possible. Cassandra was seated at a large table, having dinner with Chancellor Marcelle and the Revered Mother, Maria Sora. They were kind, which she expected, but she could not scrub the image of the Chancellor she had shown Varric earlier from her mind. It almost made her giggle.

“Seeker Pentaghast, I trust you slept well last night?”

“I did.”

“That is good.” He paused over his soup. “You have not fully explained the reason for your visit. I took that to mean it was rather secret, and none of my business.”

Cassandra smiled. “I would not have put it so bluntly, had you have asked, but in short that is not far from the truth. Seeker business is sensitive.”

Marcelle smiled. “Come now, my dear. You could tell two weathered members of the Chantry, couldn’t you?

Cassandra wondered if that was how he sold himself, when he went about seducing young men in the brothel, but she did not say this. The Revered Mother said, in her stead, “The Divine’s will is her own, Chancellor. We must not question it.”

Marcelle nodded, but he did not seem convinced. Cassandra was having a difficult time getting a read on him. He was short and plump, with grey eyes and a head of obviously colored hair. He had spilled soup down the front of his robes. It was incredibly distracting.

“Who did you dine with, today?” Maria Sora asked. “I saw you waiting for someone, in the café across the street.”

Cassandra swallowed and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “Varric Tethras. He works for the Tribune. I had thought to—”

The Chancellor suddenly stood. His chair made a horrid screeching sound as it struck the tiled floor, and toppled onto its back. “Did you speak with him?”

“I did.”

“Regarding what?”

“My business, Chancellor, which you pointed out was none of yours.”

The Chancellor didn’t care for her tone. Within five minutes, her things had been hastily packed into her bags and they, along with _herself_ , were tossed onto the street. It would have been embarrassing, and perhaps shocking, if weren’t so _angry._ With a quick dial of her phone, she called Varric and walked across the street to the café where they’d met earlier, and waited.

It took six calls for him to pick up. “Andraste’s tits, woman. I told you I was in a meeting.”

“I need you to suggest a place for me to stay.”

He paused, shifting the phone to his other ear. “Are you sleeping in a car or something?”

“I was staying at the Chantry. When I mentioned your name, they tossed me out.”

“ _Ow._ Sorry. That’s…that’s shitty. That’s my bad. Where are you?” She told him and he agreed to come and fetch her in ten minutes. It took twenty, but she somehow expected that, and he pulled up in front of the café in a rather beat up, filthy, forest green pickup truck. He took her bags and tossed them into the truck bed and opened the door for her. “This was my brother’s. Took me a minute to find the keys, I don’t drive much.”

“I appreciate the effort. Where are we going?”

“Somewhere discreet.”

“Do you have something in mind?”

“I do,” he said, carefully. “But…you’re probably not going to like it.”

 

* * *

 

She did not like it. Varric had suspected as much, as he led the way up the stairs – the elevator was broken, because the elevator was always broken, and he had carried her bags for her. She complained the entire way.

“Look,” he said. “You want to investigate a dangerous group of thugs hiding behind the veil of an institution that just kicked you to the curb for saying my _name._ I’m pretty sure that on a top ten list of people who might die tonight, you’re somewhere on it.” He unlocked the door and brought her bags into the second bedroom. “Everything’s clean, and there’s a bathroom right here, it’s yours. This is a safe building in a safe neighborhood. A lot of my friends live here, and Hawke did, too. People don’t mess with Hawke, even when she isn’t around.”

“What you are saying is—”

“We’re in a sort of neutral zone. No one here messes with the Carta, or the Chantry. People do, other people get mad. There’s no bigshots or politicians this way. It’s all just folks like us.”

“We could bring danger.”

“We won’t. We’re going to keep a low profile, and we’re also going to stay completely and totally sane and I can hear your stomach growling from where I am standing, _right_ now.” Cassandra’s cheeks reddened.

“I was expelled during dinner.”

“Fucking typical,” he muttered, and went into the kitchen to fix them something to eat.

 

 

Cassandra quickly took over the coffee table, which was an improvement over the mostly empty wine and beer bottles that had been collecting dust and mold. He shoved them into a bag and tossed it unceremoniously down the garbage shoot in the hall before going back inside. Cassandra was toying with his record collection, and she deftly placed one on the turntable, lowered the volume, and set to organizing their miniature workspace. Varric watched.

She had wonderful hands, he realized. They were strong and slim, with well-manicured nails. She wore no ring, or any other identifiable jewelry, save for something that hung around a chain on her neck. Her ears were pierced, but empty. If he peered closely, he realized there was a faint outline of freckles dotting the ridge of her nose, almost the same color as her skin. She didn’t look up, but said dryly, “Have I passed your inspection?”

“You’re Nevarran, right?”

“I am.”

“Didn’t know they had freckles.”

She looked up, and smiled. “My father was from Orlais, originally. The freckles come from his side of the family. You can hardly see them. Are you staring at me?”

“I am.”

“Well, at least you are honest. Put your sight to good use and look over those documents, just there.”

Varric leaned forward and lifted the ones in question. “These are names?”

“I confirmed a few things with…Nightingale, while you were cooking. She told me that the account numbers were likely a cipher, some kind of code.”

“Yeah, the lengths are inconsistent.”

“We would have figured that in time, I’m sure, but one of her agents has been working on this as well. She’s cracked some of the code, but she must move on to other things. The rest is for us to solve.”

They worked in silence for some time, their process only interrupted when Cassandra wondered aloud about coffee, and Varric stood to make some. She liked hers sweet, he learned. She also slept as much as he did – which was to say almost not at all. It was three in the morning before she finally went to bed, and they both awoke at seven. Varric called in, and they worked until lunch.

He learned a few other things about her. She was a Seeker, but she had wanted to be a Templar. She thought he was brash and agreed his reporting had become sloppy after Hawke’s departure. She thought Varric had potential, and she liked BLT’s. She also liked wine, and seemed to work well, and efficiently when she’d had several glasses.

“It is Friday?” she asked. Varric nodded, and poured them both another glass. “I have been here two day, and I’ve already been labeled a heretic.” She paused. “Why does he dislike you?”

“I actually couldn’t say. Might be because of the Carta stuff from last year, secretly. The more obvious reason is my mother died Andrastian, and when he wouldn’t bury her in the Chantry cemetery, I made a stink over it. Racist piece of shit.”

“He has a horrible face,” she agreed.

“My mother converted, she was baptized, all that nonsense. I was too, she did this when I was six or seven.”

“So you are Andrastian, technically.”

“Technically, and, really. I believe. I’m just not a fan of the Chantry.”

“You are spiritual.”

Varric sighed. “I pray, if that’s what you’re asking. Sometimes,” he added. “Just…you know.” He felt heat rising up on his cheeks and hid his face behind his glass. “Sometimes,” he said.

 

 

On Saturday, Cassandra awoke with a time and a place written on a piece of paper, taped to her forehead.

“You wouldn’t wake,” Varric explained, watching, amused, as she came into the kitchen with the thing still hanging in her face. “I shouted at you.”

“I was sleeping.” _For the first time in months_ , she didn’t add. But she didn’t have to. Varric understood. Cassandra pulled off the paper and stared at it. “What is it?”

“A meeting, I think. I got an encrypted email from Nightingale this morning. Took me two hours to crack it.” He shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth, pushing a plate across the table toward her, which she took gratefully. “We might die.”

“We will _not_ die,” Cassandra insisted, and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Leliana—” She froze, and Varric laughed.

“Come on,” he said, laughing. “You think I didn’t already know?”

“Know what?”

He went out of the room into another, his office from the looks of it, and came back with a newspaper. It was older, possible ten or fifteen _years_ older. He tossed it into her lap. “I save papers, sometimes.”

“How…” She peered at the headline – _NEVARRAN YOUTH RESCUES DIVINE, NAMED RIGHT HAND._ “Oh,” she said, quietly.

“You could have just _told_ me.”

“It was not pertinent.”

“No, but it means this is more important than just _Seeker_ business. It means that it matters to more people than just you and your Seeker boss. It matters to your _other_ boss, who just _happens_ to be Divine Justinia. So, yeah, it’s kind of pertinent.” He folded the paper and went back into his office.

“Why did you keep that?” she called after him. He didn’t answer right away, but he’d obviously heard her. When he reappeared, he leaned again the doorframe and smiled.

“Because,” he said. “I was going to write a book about you.”

 

* * *

 

They spent the day waiting anxiously until the sun went down. They dressed in dark clothes without thought – bundled up against the incoming cold and sudden rain that had begun to fall.

“We’ll take a cab,” he said, “but we’ll probably have to walk a ways back.” He pulled on rain boots and a hat. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

Cassandra nodded, shrugging on her coat. “What do you think we’ll find?”

“Probably dead bodies.” Varric had summarized the email for her – Leliana had uncovered a meeting place for two competing pockets of the Carta. It had concerned Varric – they were meeting in the Alienage, and he knew beyond a doubt that the less organized groups there were beginning to have their patience tested by increased violence. He was concerned about a shootout, and told her so. “I have a gun,” he said, gently, as if she didn’t suspect this already.

“So do I.” She showed him the holster at her waist, and he grinned.

“That’s kinda hot,” he said, and led the way out the front door.

They took a cab to a street just outside the alienage. The rain was still a drizzle, but the continuously darkening clouds overhead told Cassandra that they were hardly in the eye of the storm. The gates of the alienage were open, as they often were. Cassandra felt a chill come over her that had nothing to do with the weather – the place was dingy, and it smelled. Varric must have sensed her unease, because he put a hand on her elbow and said quietly, “It’s alright.”

“It is not,” she said. “What is this place? Why is it allowed to be here?”

Varric shook his head. “It’s not that it’s allowed. It’s that it’s necessary. It used to thrive, did you know that? Having an elven community was once a point of pride for this city. And then policy changed, and motivations for legislation became racialized. People who fought it were eventually voted out from office. The Viscount doesn’t have the same power he used to, not anymore. Pity,” he added. “Bran Cavin is rather talented as a politician.”

“But this is—”

“What happens,” Varric explained, “when someone decides they are better than another person, just because of the way they look. Because they believe in different gods. Because they just _feel_ like it. It’s bullshit,” he said. “And it’s why I don’t go to the Chantry, not anymore.” His lecture on personal beliefs was interrupted by the sound of gunfire. He held out his arm, stopping her from going forward. “Listen.”

Shouting came up from the street around the corner. Cassandra yanked Varric back, pulling them flush against the wall. A large group of dwarves, trailed closely by another large group of elves, dashed through the street. They stopped, and more gunfire followed.

“Where are the police?” Cassandra hissed.

“Uh, not here? What part of any of this made you think it was a _police_ problem?”

“These people need protection—” A shout came up.

“I don’t really think they need it right now.”

“ _Hey!_ ” They turned, and a group of elves was staring at them. “Who the fuck are you?”

“It’s the _fucking_ cops! _”_ someone shouted, but before Cassandra had a chance to explain, Varric put an arm in front of her, and drew his gun.

“Don’t move!” he shouted. “Don’t fucking do it.”

One of the elves narrowed their eyes. “Varric?”

“ _Merrill?_ ”

A girl ran forward, and threw her arms around him. “ _Varric!_ What _ever_ are you _doing_ here?”

“Um.”

“Oh, you _aren’t_ trying to stop all this, are you?”

“Not directly.”

The girl stood and looked at Cassandra, then at Varric. “Is this a date?”

“Not at all,” Cassandra said quickly. “Why are you engaging with them?”

“Because.” Another elf stepped forward, shouldering a long rifle. “They’re in here, starting a turf war, and kids are losing their lives ‘cause of it. They’re recruiting, and then they’re using them as cannon fodder. It’s _bullshit_ and no one cares.”

“I care,” Cassandra tried to say, but her words were drowned out by thunder and gunfire. Varric turned pointing his weapon in the direction of the noise.

“Merrill,” he said. “Please go home.” She had no weapon, and Varric’s voice was tinged with worry and upset. “All of you should go home.”

Merrill smiled at him, rather sadly, Cassandra thought, and embraced him again. “We are home, Varric. That’s why we must keep fighting.”

The two groups suddenly came to a head. Cassandra looked up, and realized they were sandwiched in the middle of a gunfight. She reached for her own weapon, holding it carefully at her side.

“We have to run,” she said. “We are in over our heads.”

“Yeah,” Varric said. “I’m aware of that, now.” He raised his gun, but the dwarves on his right didn’t notice him. Merrill stood and placed herself in front of the elves.

“You will go no further tonight,” she said. For a small girl, her voice was very great. Cassandra hoped she did not die.

“Move, knife-ear,” a dwarf shouted. “This isn’t your fight.”

“But you have made it my fight,” Merrill said, almost sweetly. “This is my home, and you are trying my patience.”

Those were the last words Cassandra heard before the guns began blazing. Something crackled in front of her, and she realized that Merrill had summoned a barrier in front of her people. She was a mage, Cassandra realized, and that did not make her feel any better.

“ _Varric!_ ”

“Run!” he shouted and gave her a shove. They fired over their shoulders as they went, and Cassandra felt the heat of bullets at her feet. They ran, and the rain came down in sheets, fogging her vision. She slipped, but Varric didn’t stop – he hauled her to her feet and dragged her until she could keep going, until there was nothing else there but the rain and the feeling of the world coming apart behind them.

 

 

Varric had never run as fast and hard as he was right then. His breath came in gasps, and he was hardly aware of just how cold it had become. Cassandra was in step next to him, and after that initial stumble, they did not falter. It was a long run, it was a hard run, but when they made it to his apartment, Varric couldn’t feel anything but sheer, unadulterated relief. He fumbled his keys a few times, still holding his gun. Cassandra had hers, and she crowded him watching him until he finally shoved the door open and they fell inside.

It was cold. They were cold. Varric’s coat was soaked, and Cassandra’s hair was flat and dripping. He went to the fireplace and turn on the switch. The flame roared and an orange glow fell over the room.

Cassandra finally spoke: “You did not tell me you would know someone.”

“I didn’t—” He groaned, letting his coat fall to the floor in the hall with a squelch. “I didn’t expect that.” His breath was still ragged, and Cassandra’s body still heaved.

It _really_ heaved.

Her gaze met his own at that moment. Whatever he was feeling, whatever was _there_ , it had not been some hours ago. Now, in the haze of their escape, in twin, desperate need of getting rid of their clothes, it exploded, and Cassandra lunged as Varric reached, and their lips crashed together.

Cassandra moaned, fumbling with the buttons of her coat as Varric shoved it off her shoulders, trying to get at her skin. She pulled, he pulled and he finally felt her skin on his. She reached clumsily behind her and unhooked her bra, tossing it over her shoulder. Varric groaned, backing her toward the couch and bending his head to mouth at her breasts. She gasped, yanking on his hair and pulling him closer.

“Pants,” he muttered, and she laughed, reaching down to shimmy out of her wet jeans and help him with his own. He was hard, and he hissed when she wrapped her hand around him, her smile teasing. “Shit—”

“Has it been long?”

“I am not having this discussion with you.” He reached between her legs and tested her wetness. “It’s a two-way street.”

“Fair enough,” she murmured, and watched as he slipped from her grasp, trailing his mouth down her chest until he was settled between her legs. With a grunt, he hauled her legs over his shoulder and buried his mouth against her cunt.

She cried out, rather loudly, in shock, which surprised him.

“Did I hurt you—”

“Don’t you _dare_ —” Varric grinned, and went back to the task at hand. Her legs were wet, and cold, but she was hot on his mouth. “There,” she breathed. “ _Oh._ ” Varric pushed harder, faster with his tongue, and she gasped, shouted, her eyes flying open and meeting his. “ _Please._ ” He knew, and he nodded, reaching to stroke her clit with his thumb, lowering her hips onto the couch. He didn’t pull back, but he gave her more, exactly where she wanted it, gauging by her reactions. She pushed against him, fucked herself on his mouth, and when she came, her thighs pressed against him, Varric felt an endearing warmth flood his nerves.

She was _beautiful._

Coming down from that was impressive, but she didn’t stop. She grabbed him, kissed him, licked at his mouth and he _shuddered_ , moaned without hesitating and looked at her.

“I—”

“ _Yes._ ”

With a groan, he grasped his cock in hand and pushed against her entrance, slowing, carefully, sliding into her. Her eyes were blown wide, her mouth hanging open as she took him, as she spread her legs and drew her knees back, letting him burying himself inside her, to the hilt. Varric stilled, keeping his eyes on her, and she nodded.

He drew out, and slammed back in.

After that, it all happened very quickly. He moved fast, and hard, and Cassandra threw her head back as he fucked her, as he took and moved and spoke to her.

“It’s good,” he said, looking right at her. “You feel good, you feel so fucking good—”

“ _Varric!_ Varric, please—”

“You can come again, can’t you? I know you can.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, yes, _yes_ —” She reached down and stroked her clit, gasping as another orgasm washed over her, and she clenched around him, hard.

Varric was gone, after that. He thrust a few more times and finally came, holding himself inside her as he shivered.

The cold finally hit him.

It seemed to hit her too. She scrambled to sit up, and he slipped out of her, trapping her legs under his waist. Varric heaved, rolling off the couch with a groan and falling to the floor. Cassandra peered down at him, narrowing her eyes.

“I’m hungry,” she announced, and Varric _laughed._

“Well.” She stabbed another piece of cheese onto the end of the stick and held it over the flame, softening it. “We know one thing, now. The elves are not simply being slaughtered.”

“They’re _joining_ the Carta,” Varric said, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d see that.”

“There must be something in it for them.” Cassandra reached over his lap for her notebook, her blanket falling open and giving him an excellent view. “Stop staring at my chest.”

“Put some clothes on, then.”

“It is nicer this way.” She paused. “It will make round two a bit easier.”

Varric choked on his wine.

 

 

Round two was quite enjoyable, and more comfortable, Cassandra had decided. The rug in front of the fire was very soft, the blanket very warm, and the slow feel of him very pleasant. She ran her hands over his shoulders as he thrust, slowly, deliberately, and smiled.

“A bit slower,” she murmured, and he obeyed, his breath trembling as it spilled out of him. She kissed him, and he stilled with a grunt and came. “Better, yes?”

“Uh, yeah?” His voice shook and he pulled out of her and rolled onto his back. “Do you—”

“In a bit,” she said, and reached out to stroke his nose. “You fascinate me.”

“Glad to,” he said happily. He shifted onto his elbow and smiled at her. “What’s this?” he asked, reaching out to touch the chain around her neck. There was nothing on it – it hung loose and empty, always.

“It belonged to my mother. She was buried with the pendant. I have not found one of value to hang there. Hers was a marriage gift from my father. My grandmother’s was a gift from her own mother.”

“So a family thing.”

“Yes,” she said, and reached up to remove it, pooling it in his palm.

“Wow. It’s…it’s heavy. Heavier than I thought.”

“It is made of steel.”

Varric smiled. “Like you, then?”

“I have never claimed—” He surged up and captured her lips in his, cupping his hand behind her head. Cassandra sighed into his mouth, melting into the embrace and rolling onto top of him, straddling his waist. “You must stop disarming me so effectively,” she murmured.

“Hmm.” He stroked her cheek. “I don’t _think_ so.”

With a smile, she pulled back, wrapping the blanket around herself again. “We will not be able to approach this problem the way we wanted to.”

“No,” he agreed, and went to get more food. “But, uh, you’d agree.” He returned with more wine and some bread. “It wasn’t a complete waste.”

“No,” she said, and pulled him close. “It certainly was not.”


End file.
